


An Unexpected Turn of Events

by samtheboyking



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Human Impala, Impala Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samtheboyking/pseuds/samtheboyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gabriel's antics always find a way to throw the Winchesters for a loop, but when the archangel's latest scheme has them waking up to an empty parking space, Dean is particularly affected, in more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unexpected Turn of Events

**Author's Note:**

> For [Liz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lizzyatedeanspie/profile). Sorry it took 87 years (het sex is hard to write).
> 
> However, I've always preferred to interpret Baby, if the car were ever to be personified, as female, and my fancast in particular is Gina Torres.

At first, Dean thinks it's Sam's doing.

Another attempt at pranking, another opportunity to get him back for that time Dean switched out his shampoo with Nair. But they haven't been like that for a long time, hell, months, and besides, this would have been crossing the line, even for Sam.

It doesn't stop the accusatory edge to Dean's voice when he turns to his brother and asks, "Dude, where's my car?"

Turn back to 1:46 A.M.

They'd been on the road for the better part of the day, cutting across from Arial, South Carolina, and making their way back to Bobby's. By the time the clock had hit one in the morning Dean had caught his head nodding forward more than once, and Sammy was already snoring against the passenger side window, breath fogging up the glass at each exhale.

He had kept at it for several miles even after that, until he'd passed the sign advertising a 'White Rock Motel.' At that point they were still a good three hours out even with speeding twenty over the limit, and as much as Dean hated to admit, if he hadn't stopped they were like to have ended up turned over in a ditch somewhere along the highway. The room had been cheap enough, just a spot for Dean to catch a few hours before they could hit the road again, and Sam was all for an actual bed he could stretch his limbs out on.

Now, Dean distinctly remembers climbing out in front of room 2B and patting Baby's hood before he and Sam had headed in, accompanied by a fond 'see ya in the morning, girl.'  
That had been at 1:46 A.M.

It is now 7:16 in the morning, a bright and sunny day, and Dean, with a duffle bag on his shoulder and cup of shitty motel coffee in his hand, stands in front of their room where they had pulled up not six hours ago.

The parking space is empty. Sam is looking bewildered, Dean belligerent.

"I...I'm not sure, Dean."

Like most of the motels they tend to frequent White Rock isn't exactly the vision of class and respectability, however, they'd never had any problems at the other dumps they'd stayed overnight at. Until now.

The bag from Dean's shoulder drops, half drained cup of coffee shoved in the direction of his brother until it's taken off his hands so that he can stride forth into the space where the Impala should have been. He turns around once--as if he may have missed something--and then faces Sam, a fist clenching at his side. "I swear, when I find the son of a bi-"

There's a whistle. Clear and cutting and sharp so that Dean's head whips around on sheer instinct, because that right there was directed at them.

The first thing Dean's eye catches is the sunlight, glinting off black sunglasses. She is tall, dark skinned and dark haired, tight black curls cascading free down her shoulders. She's leaning up against the hood of a cherry red '63 Catalina only a few spaces to the left, legs crossed over each other casually as she looks on, head inclined. She is also holding in her hand a Mossberg 500. His shotgun, the one from Baby's trunk.

Dean's not sure how he missed her.

Sam has stepped down next to him, at a loss for words as much as Dean is when they watch her lean back up, one last trail of her hand across the Catalina's hood and a look of admiration before she's approaching them.

The first words out of Dean's mouth once they are standing face to face can't be helped. "And who the hell are you?" All Dean gets in return is an indignant quirk of her brow.

When she makes to reach for her pocket next Dean warns her, a sharp 'hey!' and Sam is already inching back towards the duffle on the ground; but she holds her palm back up, levels her eyes on Dean and says something that makes absolutely no sense.

"You'd think after years of me hauling your two asses cross country you'd recognize me."

Sam makes a grab for their bag when the woman moves again--a hand dipping into the front pocket of her jacket--but his brother is too late, hasn't even gotten the zipper of the duffle open before the woman is tossing something at Dean and he is catching on reflex.

The thing is twisted, rough in Dean's hand and he can feel all of the little nicks making up its texture when he runs his fingers across it. It's a weird feeling, having the tiny plastic army man turning over in his hand, a miniscule piece of Winchester history--their history--cradled in his palm, and if it were any other green army man Dean would say it was a joke, but it's not, and he knows without a doubt in his mind that this is what Sam had crammed right into the backseat ashtray all those years ago, where it had remained ever since.

"Who are you..." Dean levels his gaze on the woman once again, voice dropped low but no less threatening, a warning.

He probably should have been more concerned about the gun she was wielding, but so far it had remained held at her side, loose in her grip and Dean could have--should have--disarmed her, except she is reaching again into her pocket a second time.

"You know who I am," she responds, voice still steady and unwavering as she takes another step, fingers uncurling to reveal the pieces, blue and yellow and red.

Dean doesn't make a move to grab the offering, just stares at them held in the center of her hand. Sam must be watching too (he doesn't hear his brother sifting through the bag anymore), but he can't turn back to check, fixated on the Legos that he'd personally shoved into the slots of Baby's vents, the rattle of them whenever they cranked the heat as comforting as any of his dad's old tapes.

"Here." Sam moves up beside him, inching slow and cautious towards her. "I can take that for you." He's reaching for the gun.

The woman gives it up without so much as a shrug, hands it off to Sam like she doesn't have to think twice, like it's practiced. She's still holding out her hand.

"You're not my car." Dean has to say it despite feeling utterly ridiculous, has to tamp down whatever she's playing at before this goes any further. "You're not, so what did you do with her?"

She takes another step, only one, but it's enough to have Dean running through his options; she no longer posed a physical threat now that Sam had taken the gun, and yet she doesn't seem at all fazed by being at a disadvantage. Actually, she seems as comfortable as ever.

She starts with a sigh that is almost imperceptible. "In the spring of 1967 I came off the assembly line in Janesville, Wisconsin. In 1973 I was purchased for $2204 in Lawrence, Kansas, by John Winchester, and if it hadn't been for you, John would have ended up rolling around in that God awful bus of a car.  
"In 2005 I was totaled, and my three passengers were injured...but none more so than you, Dean. I tried to protect you, I did. I couldn't.

"I thought it was over for me then. I was a wreck, and so were you. Bobby had the right of it; frame twisted beyond recognition, hardly any parts worth salvaging through the mess of it all. Lost cause. Sam saved me that day from being sold for scrap. More importantly, he saved a piece of you. And you came back to me- you were pissed, I knew, but not at me...so when you laid into me I took it and I bore the marks because you already bore enough of mine.

"You spent the weeks rebuilding me, from the ground up. I wasn't even sure it was possible but you were out there, day after day, putting me back together bit by bit like I was the most important thing in the world to you, if you could just pull me together. By the time you were through it was like I'd come right off the assembly line again, as good as if I'd never been broken.

"You've taken care of me over the years; you always have. I've been with you through all sorts of hell, from the night Mary died to when John handed me over to you, to the day we picked up Sam from Stanford and began this road trip. Dean, you know me."

She stands before them plain, nothing but sincerity with which she speaks though there is a hint of pleading in her expression, eyes still held solely on Dean and hardening with resolve when her fingers begin to lift up the edge of her shirt.

The movement leaves no time for adjustment and Dean isn't sure what to expect (nothing seems beyond the realm of possibility at this point), yet somehow the initials still come as a surprise.  
The 'DW' and 'SW' are lighter against darker brown, the flesh raised, Dean can tell from where he stands. It has Dean eight years old again with his dad's carving knife, him and Sammy in the backseat cutting into Baby's side paneling.

Sam is the one who breaks the silence. "How did you-" he waves around his hands, a broad gesture. "What happened?"

Her hip cocks out to the side and Dean recalls a vague, fuzzy memory of Baby's tail end drifting.  
"Some short, blondy guy paid a visit last night; a bit on the pudgy side too. One minute I'm in park waiting for sunrise and the next I know he snaps his fingers and I'm standing there, two legged and upright." Her mouth turns down here, eye narrowing. "Ran his hands all over my hood first though."  
Dean knows what Sam is thinking before he even opens his mouth, and they speak in unison.

"Gabriel."

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. This is not happening. "Angels, freaking dicks."

There's a clearing of a throat. "Sorry, who?"

"Gabriel," Dean repeats and waves a hand at the woman he is still not entirely convinced is his car. "The archangel."

Although it does little to make Dean feel better, the woman--he resists the urge to refer to her as Baby, much too soon for that--looks about as unbelieving as he feels.

"And why would an archangel want to turn me into this?" She gestures to herself with a look not quite embodying disgust, but definitely more than displeased. While a human transformation of his car is no laughing matter and not something Dean is about to take lightly, the woman herself...well, she's far from displeasing.

Sam cuts in before Dean can supply much more than a raise of his eyebrows. "There could be a number of reasons why Gabriel would find it funny." He breaks to chance a look at Dean. "But none more than the fact that he probably just wants to see what my brother will do."

"Oh I have a few ideas in mind of what I'll do when I get his sorry ass down here."

"Right..." Dean can sense Sam eyeing him. "Why don't we take this inside. We still have the room for a couple more hours."

Moving indoors somehow makes the situation all the more real and inevitable though. The woman, car, vehicular manifestation, is sitting at the edge of one twin bed, a leg thrown over the other and hands braced against the mattress. She doesn't look much different in the dim lamplight of the motel room than she had outside; no 427 V-8, no front bench seat, no squeaking doors. She is nothing like his car. She is not his car. And each passing second, his defense seems to waver.

She does however have, Dean takes note of when she leans further back, shirt riding up, a belt buckle. The silver KAZ 2Y5 glinting back at him is almost enough to make Dean laugh. Fucking Gabriel.  
"So if you're my car I guess you spent a lot of time with our dad, yeah?" He can already hear Sam in the background, typing away. Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossing. The woman shifts forward and crosses her arms in return.

"Is that a rhetorical question or do you not know the history of your own car?" The tapping of keys comes to a halt and Dean's brows shoot up, but before he can formulate something worthy of a comeback she continues, an almost wistful smile growing on her face and her tone easing up. "I spent a lot of time with John. He liked to call me Sweetheart. I've always preferred Baby." She shrugs, too exaggerated, not quite a seamless translation into a human gesture. "John took care of me. He should have taken better care of you two."

Dean rises up. "Hey, my dad was-"

"I'm sure he was, doesn't change the fact."

The silence that falls is a tangible thing, like pressure gradually filling the room until there's a clearing of a throat and Dean's gaze snaps away, tension breaking in half by the sight of Sam getting up from his chair, laptop closing.

"Okay, you know what, I'm going to head to the library, hopefully dig something up on transformed objects or summoning an archangel." Dean knows where this is going, gets as far as protesting with a raise of his head before Sam sidesteps towards the door and turns the knob, last parting words of, "Just sit here and try to get along- try Bobby," before he's out and Dean's left to hold a protesting hand up to himself, which quickly drops away.

"Well are you just going to stand there gaping or are you going to call Bobby?" Dean's head whips back towards the woman to find her smirking, and the somewhat childish (but no less appropriate) glare he shoots her only produces a chuckle.

As it turns out, Bobby is as much of a help as Sam:

"Your car is a girl?"

"Yeah. We're thinking Gabriel-"

"The Impala is a human?"

"Yes now can you help or not?"

"Well don't snap at me boy, I'm not the one who pissed off an archangel and got their car whisked off."  
"She wasn't whisked off she's right here on the bed!"

Somehow within the last five minutes he's begun defending the woman's validity. Go figure.

But Bobby agrees to check into any cases of sudden personified objects with the caveat of 'I don't even know where the hell I'm gonna start lookin' Dean' before he hangs up. Yeah, just great. They were supposed to have been back in South Dakota by now, supposed to be taking a few well earned days off, not dealing with this kind of crap. Then again the crap in their lives never really seems to take a break, so why would it now?

"I don't know how you put up with it."

"What?" Dean abandons his post--albeit, begrudgingly--to perch himself at the other end of the bed, watching the woman warily as she scoots backwards towards the center of the mattress, legs stretched out. She's studying the limbs with what might be considered a look of contempt.

"These." She motions at her legs and her eyes flick up to meet his. Very nice eyes, Dean thinks absently, once he stops surveying the long lines of her legs. "I had some time to kill before you guys woke up, walked around the parking lot. They're so slow." She huffs, a few locks of curled hair pushed off from her shoulder. "I don't know how you get anywhere on two wheels."

And Dean is one hundred percent in agreement there. "That's why I have the best ride known to man. Nothing can top my Baby." The pride oozing from his tone can't be missed and the woman shifts back further, until her back meets the headboard.

"That so?" her voice rings out, fingers beginning a drumming beat against the blanket.

"Of course," Dean scoffs and shifts to hitch a leg up, gets a better look at the woman reclining on his bed. "Get her on a stretch of empty road, windows rolled down; no better place to be."

Her laugh is soft, eyes shut briefly as she tapers off into a hum and it lends Dean a few split seconds to appreciate the sight, until she refocuses and says, "I know."

And oh. Right. Can't let her win that easily though, even if she does have the advantage of a three speed automatic transmission. "Hey- being human isn't so bad." Except once it's out of his mouth Dean's mind goes blank and he can't conjure up a single example for the life of him to the contrary; too many memories of death and pain and loss flood his system, and the 'good old days' encompass a few months worth when Sammy was a newborn and Dean liked stand on his tiptoes to look over into his crib; he's pretty sure that's not the example she is looking for. It must show, because soon enough she's laughing again, exceptionally louder and baring her teeth.

"Oh yeah, like what?" She raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Dean swallows. "Well, like..." her mouth twitches in amusement and that's why he ends up blurting it out; "Lips. Lips are a perk." And definitely hers, full, soft looking and a little glossy, something he hadn't noticed before.

But she seems genuinely puzzled when she asks, "What good are lips?"

This, at least, he is somewhat of an expert on, and well, Sam had said to get along. "I uh, can't really explain, but I can show you."

"Alright then." She sits up, looks at him expectantly. "Then show me."

Dean has done more than his fair share of kissing in his days, though this, he must admit, is certainly a new milestone even for him. But she looks like any other woman--far more attractive than he'd given her credit for now that he's climbing up the mattress--and her lips look like lips, no special quirks or rules to adhere to.

Feels just like lips too when he leans in with a hand cupping the back of her neck to guide her in, soft and plush and breaking apart when he traces along the seam of her mouth. There's little to it, a kiss is a kiss, and this one will rank up there, stored away under some subconscious heading like 'I made out with my car.'

When he peels away she's still looking at him with the same expression, awaiting some magical revelation or understanding, and all Dean receives for his efforts is a lackluster, "Huh." And he will be damned before that is the lasting impression he leaves on his own vehicle.

"Well you didn't put much into it yourself," he grumbles, leaning back a bit because this is an experience he is not well acquainted with, not quite rejection but an awkward state of limbo in the realm of 'first kiss' territory.

"You weren't very instructive."

Dean thinks the hint of his tongue should have been more than instructive, but if that's how it's going to be. "Alright then-" He wastes no time in situating himself between her thighs again, more insistent and pressing forward to run his fingers between curly locks and brush his thumb up beneath her jawline, lips demanding.

Her own mouth is pliant, soft and yielding to each trace of his tongue or nip of his teeth. Dean doesn't let up until he has her mouth surrendering to part more willingly, until he can taste her and draw her forward, forward, forward until she is the one pressing suddenly and he finds himself with his back flat against the bed as his hips are straddled. She doesn't break at all during the swift maneuver, mouth no longer tentative or shy in exploration but just as wicked and skilled as his own, the flip so uncalled for that he can't process it all at once when their tongues are twisting around each other and this is definitely not first kiss territory anymore, but more like dirty, scandalous back alley kissing. Or sloppy, disorienting pinned against the bed by your car kissing. It throws Dean for a loop.

When she finally does lift up for air it is Dean who is sputtering, still trapped beneath her weight and bracketed by her thighs. He blinks up at her. "You...seem to know what you're doing."

"I know what lips are good for."

Yeah she does. She looks too smug at the fact. "Anything else you know?"

The implication is there, punctuated by the lift of Dean's brow, and it is all the incentive she needs to lean back down. It's slower this time around, lips taking the time to mold and form around curves that should be new and are somehow familiar, and the element of surprise is no longer present, but this does not make the way she arches her back when Dean runs his hands up her sides any less intriguing, only encourages him to continue, fingers wandering and slipping beneath her jacket.

It's a nice jacket, good leather that hugs against her body, and it has to go, takes a place somewhere between the second bed and the door to the bathroom when Dean manages to tug it off and send it flying. There's not a sound of protest when he wanders further, dipping beneath the hem of her shirt, daring to skim across bare flesh until he hits the rough, raised lines, the double signatures that were left as a permanent brand on her all those years ago.

She's not deterred in the least. He lets his fingers trace the path, only aided when her shirt is pulled off, joins her jacket in the pile. With such an expanse of skin to explore he almost doesn't know where to start, doesn't have to decide when she's supporting herself against his shoulders, Dean's hands flying to take hold of her hips.

"From all the girls you brought into my backseat-" her hips grind down, way too fucking slow for how Dean has to suck in a breath through his teeth, fingers curling into her skin to facilitate the motion, gain more, "-I've had plenty of material to study."

Which could be really fucking weird if Dean were in the mindset to focus on anything beyond the sensuous, rhythmic downward roll she's built up, one that has his own hips canting up from the tease. It almost sounds like a scorn, a violation of Baby's backseat although it certainly hadn't felt like anything but the purest form of human copulation when he had Casey Hannington pressed against the rear passenger side window in the twelfth grade. Women had always loved his car, but now Dean wonders if they were really respecting the beauty of a classic or were just going along with it for his sake when he led them to the backseat.

Dean can definitely respect the beauty of a classic, the woman atop his thighs rocking against the growing line of his erection. His hands are already sliding up when the weight is taken from his shoulders, arms twisting behind her back and a quick flick of her wrist to unhook her bra, straps slipping from her shoulders until that too is tossed away. She really has had a lot of material to work with.

There are all sorts of crazy thoughts still running Dean's mind amok, from body work to paint jobs and it's all whisked away along with his shirt when she takes the initiative to pull that off, material caught at his chin momentarily before it's yanked away.

Her own fingers are as curious as his it seems, first grazing across a nipple, which he answers with a short buck of his hips, and then across to run the outline of the tattoo, ink bold against the tone of his skin. Why this is the detail that earns him a low hum of approval Dean's not sure (he thinks his general chest area is pleasing in and of itself) but her fingers feel something akin to reverent, a bit too personal and edging on intimate so that Dean breaks it by leaning up, stomach clenching as he lifts himself to kiss between her chest, further up into the hollow of her neck where the skin is supple, taken easily between his teeth and lips to suck.

There's a sigh, a flutter of eyelashes as Dean's gaze travels up to gauge her reaction, full lips parted and brows just creasing inward with the graze of his teeth, so when he goes to turn them, directing her back with each subtle mark his mouth makes, only to be pushed right back down, it is confusion that graces his features.

"Wha-" he goes to challenge, to at least draw himself back up but she's already shaking her head at him, hands settling against his arms.

"I don't think so, Dean Winchester," she says, a glint in her eye, and he has no former memories to draw on here but he can't help but think he's seen that look before. "After years of you riding me it's about time I get to ride you for a change, don't ya think?"

The way she slides down his legs is hotter than it has any right to be, might be the best thing to ever happen to him for the groan (something like compliance) it pulls out of his chest, and this is an area he has plenty of practical, first hand experience to draw upon.

The motel blanket is scratchy beneath his legs, it turns out, once she's unzipped his pants and has those airborne, too, and there is something to be said for her determination. He can't deny Gabriel did one hell of a job picking out a woman.

"I'm still me." She's teasing along the hem of his underwear, fingernails making the muscles of his stomach jump. He becomes irrationally worried that she can read his thoughts for a whopping five seconds, until she's landing a kiss right below his bellybutton before tugging his underwear down, cock free to lie hard against the jut of his hip.

This move earns more than an appreciative hum from her, eyes in no rush to turn from studying him, a look too hard and too long and which sets him to squirming, and Dean tries to once again lean up, assist her in getting her own jeans unzipped--being the only one fully naked here is a bit unnerving, especially under a gaze so scrutinizing--and once again she refuses to budge, insists on putting her hands to his shoulders. "I'm running the show here."

"Not much of a show," Dean drawls, yet he leans back down all the same, smile making its way to his lips and an arm used to support the back of his neck.

"Is for me," she shoots back, another squeeze around his hip and a chuckle when his hips jolt from the sensation, a muttered 'shit' escaping Dean's mouth.

How Dean could have ever doubted her prowess with her mouth (God that mouth) is now completely beyond him, as she's skilled enough that the soft press of her lips into the side of his neck and the teasing suck she lays just behind his ear distracts him well enough--has his eyes slipping shut and his breath hitching, hands flying back to her sides--that he doesn't register when she's managed to slip her pants off, material kicked from her feet, only breaks and looks up when his fingers skim the elastic band of her panties and-

"Oh."

"Don't try to woo me with that silver tongue now."

Which is entirely unfair because come on, the corner of her mouth is curling up and she's pulling the material down her thighs, the smooth brush of her hands along his legs as she works her way down, and then there's nothing to get in the way of skin on skin.

It should be stranger, Dean thinks among the slow slide of their skin, shouldn't seem as familiar as it does because he's in bed with a woman he's never seen, except that he does know her, has known her for his whole life, and so the curve of her hip and the way his hand fits to the small of her back is almost too easy, unconscious and effortless as she straddles him and kisses him into silence.

There's something decidedly rougher about her, not just for the fact that she's the one that has him pinned down and at her will (nothing Dean is about to complain about), but the way the mark of her lips seems to linger, something sharp and too desperate considering they're just getting started, growing more frantic by the moment and measured by each muffled curse into each other's mouths or gasps for breath. A hand stroking up his shaft has Dean's hips jerking, a stuttered 'fu-ck' lost and swallowed down as she sucks his bottom lip between her teeth.

She keeps her hand firm, slicking her palm across the head of his dick before stroking back down. There's no way he's going to hold out at the rate she's going, but from where she's grinding wet against the angle of his hip he can guess she won't either, more evident when she pulls away, leaving him to groan at the loss of contact and blink back up at her.

The long curling strands of her hair are thrown back, that wicked mouth he's come to love in such a short amount of time opened to an 'o' and her eyes are narrowed, gaze centered on him and Dean can already feel the heat on his face, the throb building in his cock when she lifts herself onto her knees, grips him at the base and merely rubs the tip of his cock between her legs, wet heat slipping past without catching.

"Shit."

It's a hazy thought that she's technically a virgin, and is a condom recommended for sexual intercourse with automobiles, and most importantly, will the blunt drag of his fingernails down her sides scratch the paint? All of it is shoved aside as she finally sinks down, one slow glide that doesn't end until she's seated on his lap and keeping herself braced with a palm against his chest.

"You good?" It's only polite to ask but his voice isn't much above a rasp at this point, hips twitching in the effort to keep still, effort redoubled when she shifts forward just slightly only to slide back. Dean groans.

"Are you good?" she asks in return, and he's sure she means to be giving him sass again but it's not quite effective anymore with her tone gone breathless or the way she keeps nudging back and forth, face twisted into some form of concentration that might be construed as painful if every little motion of her hips rocking back and forth wasn't punctuated by the slip of a moan past her lips.

It's the last thing said, not much to add when she pulls herself up halfway before letting her body carry her back down and Dean's hips nearly jackknife up from the sensation, a motion that doesn't go unnoticed. Once she's regained some composure--once they've gotten beyond sporadic little thrusts and wordless directions--it is something she encourages, allows Dean to plant his feet and pump his hips in time with how she's begun to roll down onto his cock in earnest, a steady rhythm building with the slap of their skin together, interspersed with Dean's grunts and her short moans, sounds which she seems reluctant to release and no longer able to help.

"That's it- like that, fuck Baby..." They're both gasping, bodies working together and the mattress letting out protesting squeaks at each push and pull, Dean's blood running hot beneath his skin and all focus redirected to thrusting up harder, faster, so that he doesn't realize it when the endearment slips out. She does.

"Always wanted you-" she manages to get out--completed thought or not--between grinding her hips down so hard it has Dean biting his lip because she might be the one on top but he is not going to be the one to come first, and the blunt honesty of her words do a good enough job at staving off the first tightening coil he can feel growing low in his stomach and in his balls. "Love you, you know." Her hands are planted on either side of his head, eyes which have been mostly closed now fluttering back open, too damn sincere and Dean can't tell how to interpret what she's saying to him, but it's not like she gives him the chance to speak anyway. "Stupid and reckless and too brave for your own good."

It's a mess of skin slicked by sweat, heat dragging up his cock and and fingers fumbling for purchase, one of Dean's hands finding its way to cup around her breast, tweak a nipple between his fingers. Words thrown around (from her end) seemingly angry and pleading all at once, and the same iterations (from his end) of 'Fuck Baby, there, there- always good to me' get cut short once his thumb swipes over her clit and she tenses, body straightening for a split second before dropping again to succumb to when his finger flicks out again, and again, until she has her face buried into the side of his neck and her body goes taut, clenching around his cock and convulsing.

"Dean-" Her voice is soft in comparison to how her hips are still grinding down, wringing out the last waves of pleasure around his shaft and it's useless then, Dean's hands keeping her held firmly down against him with Baby murmuring into his neck, useless to keep up any sort of pretense when he can feel his balls draw in tight and the pressure snap, coming with a groan deep and draw out.

Sex is sex. It's how it's always been, because sex is something fun, something he's good at, something that doesn't need to be taken too seriously or isn't in danger of meaning too much.

Sex isn't trying to hold on too close for fear of losing something important, isn't how when she finally rolls off and onto her back how Dean pulls her right back into his side. It might be a small fraction comprising something much bigger, the things he doesn't dwell on out loud, though with Baby, he's never had to in the first place.

"Told you I know what lips are good for." There's a mouth moving against the side of his neck and Dean hums, the noise turning into a contented sigh when he can feel that mouth curve into a smile.

"Sure do," he concedes, doesn't bother to open his eyes as he strokes lazily long her arm, up her shoulder from where she's tucked into him. "Wonder who taught you that."

"Don't sound so smug."

Like he's the one sounding smug around here. Dean chuckles anyway.

This isn't just sex, but this is still good, Dean decides, and he doesn't let himself contemplate it too much as their breathing evens back out, horrible coarse texture of the motel blanket beneath them a little less noticeable. Besides, the sudden harsh knocking at the door that has his head jerking up doesn't allow the convenience for any pondering on deep, profound sexual encounters with the place he's always felt safest.

"Hey-! I need to clear this room for check in!" There's a gruff call from the other end and Dean is pulling his thoughts together enough to respond ("Yeah yeah, hold on!") before rolling off the side of the bed, kicking around the scattered articles of clothing longer than would be considered decent, but then again he'd just had sex with his car so how decent could he have really been to start?

Luckily, in the end, Dean is able to get the room for another night, no matter how displeased Frank at the front desk seems to be, especially when Dean throws him a not so subtle grin, hair still a mess from getting ridden into the mattress. Frank swipes his card without a word. Lucky- not only in that he'd much rather return to the room where Baby (whatever earlier qualms he'd had about using the term for her having vanished) is still waiting beneath the sheets, but also for the fact that when Sam returns his brother has a whole lot of nothing to offer up, and they are still nowhere closer to getting Baby back on four wheels as they had been this morning.

And when he makes a jab at Sam for having done nothing all day at the library only for his brother to counter with "Oh yeah, and I guess between watching soap opera reruns all day you have a lot of useful information to share then," Dean merely replies with "Actually I had more of a hands on experience." Dean winks and Baby, bless her, doesn't balk in the slightest. Sam throws up his hands, a declaration of "Forget it!"

Bobby turns out to be just as close as they are to figuring something out when they call him between picking through their assorted mini-mart dinner of Ruffles, beef jerky, salted peanuts and those individual little pies that have a lot of variations of 'fructose' on their back label. In terms of solving the case the day has been a loss, but when they're turning in for the night, Baby curled at his side and Sam lying resolutely with his back turned to them, it feels anything but.

It hits Dean around 8:30 the next morning when he snaps awake that all of the previous day could have (probably had) been some crazy fucked up fantasy. Was it still that first morning after, had they only just pulled into White Rock a few short hours ago?

His phone says no, but the cold empty spot next to him in bed begs to differ. Dean doesn't wake Sam, goes about emptying his bladder and brushing his teeth in silence, and when he slips out the door he shuts it carefully, snicks it closed with a soft click. He still only has socks on when he walks--one full circle--around the Impala sitting in the parking spot they'd pulled up in two days ago, as if it had been there all along.

She looks the same, shining against the rising sun, windshield still dust stained and bug splattered from their latest drive. No scratch marks adorn her hood, nor her tail end when Dean walks around, no signs of how he'd raked his fingers across her skin.

"Don't get me wrong," Dean's voice doesn't reach much above a whisper as he looks between the windshield and a side mirror, "I love that you're back, but uh...I'll miss you." Stupid really, because she hadn't gone anywhere, and if anything he should be relieved she's back to her true form. Whatever early morning sentimental confessions were about to crop up though is stopped short by Sam's voice behind him.

"Oh, good!" His brother steps off the curb, sock clad as well and hair still sleep wild. "To be honest I wasn't sure what we were going to do this morning. Local library's a bit short on material for this sort of thing."

"Yeah," Dean grunts, turning his back to the car. "Lets get out of here. I just wanna put some road behind us."

Sam is eyeing him and Dean's gearing up for the defense, but Sam just says, "Right. Okay," before retreating back into the room, and Dean spares one more quick glance over his shoulder at Baby before following him in.

It's not like they have much to pack and Frank seems all too happy for them to check out from 2B, and 9:30 hasn't even rolled around before they're ready to leave White Rock behind.

"I'm not sure what the point of this was," Dean mutters, throwing his duffle into the backseat. "Really, what good did a one day delay do for Gabriel?"

Sam merely shrugs his way, passenger side door groaning as he climbs in and Dean takes the driver's seat. "Knowing Gabriel, we'll probably never know."

"God, I'm just ready to get to Bobby's."

Sam makes a noise of agreement before reclining back, head tipped up.

Sliding the key into the ignition and hearing Baby rumble to life has always been satisfying, but never more so than now, and Dean is thankful that his brother is intent on napping the whole way back to South Dakota, won't see the way he runs a hand across the dash first, smile peeking out past his front of annoyance and exasperation because this might be his car, but it isn't _just_ his car. The way his hand slides is reminiscent of the smooth expanse of Baby's back, the way her skin moved against his, the purr of her engine unmistakably the exact sounds she made back when they were rolling into each other.

Dean smirks to himself, rolls down the window, and puts her in drive.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments/Criticism appreciated.


End file.
